Arabian Nights
by de yaten
Summary: this is wrong wrong wrong, but let's do it anyway. Arabian nights were so unlike Arabian days. Dark, noncon if you squint. ::AxelxJasmine::


Title: Arabian Nights

Author: Digimon Empress Yaten (de yaten)

Notes: Axel/Jasmine sorta. A bit dark. Dubcon. Companion fic/sequel is "Forget About Love." Updated a bit 3.10.2008.

Disclaimer: Don't own Kingdom Hearts, Disney, or their respective characters.

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**_this is wrong wrong wrong but let's do it anyway_**

This is wrong, she thinks, as he pins her against a wall and smothers her bare neck with kisses that – she can't be sure, it doesn't make any sense, but hell none of this does anyway—kisses that leave bright red burns behind.

She doesn't know why she sent a growling Rajah away a moment ago, or why she didn't summon the guards the moment this completely wrong person strolled into her bedroom unannounced.

He's wrong the moment she looks at him, completely _wrong_, because of his hair (unnaturally red , like fire and blood with black smoke licking the bottom) and she knows that he should be boiling alive in that strange coat, but there's not a drop of sweat on his forehead.

_This is wrong,_ she thinks again, but all she does is stare right back at him when his hands start to examine her gossamer nightgowned body. She says nothing, nothing at all, until the thought occurs to her that he is being very soft, too soft, as if his touch was going to break her.

Which she won't, she knows, because she is not one of those dainty-how-do-you-do-sir-the-weather-is-fine-today Princesses and the sheer audacity of this stranger to assume so ignites something in her that her father and Jafar and her many ladies-in-waiting haven't yet been able to put out, though not for lack of trying on their part.

She smacks him across a black jester-teared cheek and her unladylike smirk is all too brief, because the look in his green eyes is anything but humbled or sorry or even slightly pained.

The hands, that a moment ago were treating her like porcelain, now pressed pampered wrists against the wall and were threatening her with the same fire that tinted her neck red.

"Is there something you wanted to say, Princess?" His voice is light but smoldering underneath with something she isn't sure she wants to explore, but it's the first time he's spoken and the first time she's ever heard Princess used as an insult.

"This is…" she begins, unfinished, because the alien feeling of someone (a peasant, probably) touching her, threatening her, has dulled her sharp mind and she can find no witty retort that would send him fleeing from the Palace like so many suitors.

"Wrong?" He smirks, suggestive, and it's strange to her that his smirk and burns and bruises are making her heart flutter when a thousand praises and gifts from a high-born Prince could not.

It comes to her in a literal flash and she catches her breath before smiling. A smile she practiced in the mirror after accidently stumbling upon some-noble-or-another's harem when she was ten, the smile the girls had on their face before they noticed the innocent little slip of a thing watching them from behind a barrel.

"Aren't you hot in that coat?" she says, willing her voice to be smooth and sultry and more experienced, "Would you like to get more…. comfortable?"

He looks into her eyes for a long time, and then he throws back his head and laughs. He laughs because she is young and naïve and a little bit stupid for the suggestion. He laughs because he can see in her eyes that her story isn't near-finished, she has never gone on a magic carpet ride and has never felt the terror of standing under a rain of sand in an hourglass, and she has yet to experience True Love's Kiss and feel her heart swell with happiness under the moon.

"It is hot, Princess," he says, releasing her hand and wondering if the look of need in her eyes would've made him happy some Other time. "In fact, you could say I'm burning up."

He walks away and he knows her hand is reaching out, wanting something or someone to rescue her from this endless parade of suitors and rules and the dark gleam in Jafar's eyes.

Someone will, he knows. He's read the books, the journals that detail the when where why and how's of each ridiculously happy World. Someone will rescue her, and love her, and she will be much happier than she is now.

He might come back, afterwards, and see if she is still up for this when she's happy.

She won't be, he knows, because that voice that was telling her it's wrong wrong wrong will not _let her say but let's do it anyway. _


End file.
